


Head over Heels

by Siera_Writes



Series: Small Steps [2]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Smut, hatsome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:44:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3980215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then the warmth is gone, and Smith can't help the little whimper that leaves his kiss-parted lips. He can barely think straight. The brunet is smiling ruefully at the other man, his eyes barely brown now, almost wholly black, just as Ross's are, only the slightest hint of icy iris remaining, and cheeks flushed. The darkest haired man stands with his legs conspicuously crossed, awe on his face. He whispers a few choice expletives under his breath, glancing quickly between the two.</p><p>Trott looks to Ross, then Smith. "Upstairs?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head over Heels

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, I hope to God my first attempt at writing smut isn't awful. Please tell me if it is, so I can sort it out, or give me some constructive criticism or something!
> 
> This follows Motionless (part one of this series), so I'd advise you read that to understand some of the characterisation, but otherwise, enjoy.
> 
> I also wrote it at one in the morning, so I was pretty much delirious, and probably made a huge pile of weird spelling mistakes and stuff? *shrugs*

Smith hesitates at the entry to the apartment he shares with Ross, begins to really think this whole situation through. Currently, his brain is frazzled, the possibilities that his next action could lead to seeming detached from reality, impossible. The lingering tinge of alcohol in his system doesn't help.

He already feels the urge to bolt. It's not helped by the dual sets of eyes boring into him, cerulean and tourmaline, light and dark. Doesn't know whether he's overstepping some strange boundary, pushing his and Ross's friendship, alienating Trott. Both stare impassively. The tallest man swallows, hoping neither note the slight tremor in his hand, hear the loud and compulsive working of his throat as he swallows, see the worry he's sure is spelt out over his face. 

The door falls open with a sighing creak, and both Smith and Ross turn to the shorter man. The auburn haired man swipes the hand not on the door over his thigh in a staccato motion, smiles bashfully, and decides it's now or never - if he doesn't say it now, he never will.

"Uh, you wanna come in for a drink, um, coffee?" His heart beats double time as he processes the widening around the corner of the brunet's eyes, his Cupid bow lips parting, and - really, he should not look at those lips right now. He mentally shakes himself, glances at Ross, sees him focused on the other man with a gentle smile. Smith's gaze flicks back, and the emerging smile that spreads across the man's face is like the sun parting the heavens; beautiful and humbling to witness.

He hopes, a little selfishly, that he can witness that smile again.

He relaxes, just a little, lets his joy overtake his sensibilities and allows a matching smile to form. Realising he's allowed to now (oh god, don't let this be a misreading of the situation), Smith gently lays his palm at the back of Trott's neck where the beginning curve of his spine is evident, the heat of the man's body seeping through the leather jacket that sits so nicely on him, and presses him carefully past him to cross into the apartment. He can't quite hide the shiver as the brunet's elbow accidentally brushes his front.

Ross looks at him, mixture of emotions evident, though subtle. Pleased, and something else... With a slight shock, Smith realises that Ross is proud. Of him. Giddiness floods his mind, and the next minute, all three are safely ensconced in the house. Trott's features are shadowed by the golden light emanating from lamps scattered about, cheekbones even sharper as dusky tones play over the planes of his face. Ross's eyes are bleached by the light, while they stand wordless in the hallway, a grey-blue like chill water, pretty like frost, but with none of the cold.

He shrugs his jacket off, hangs it up, then holds his hands out, request for their coats unspoken and unnecessary. They both shuck theirs off, and all are left in plain tees and jeans. Smith toes his boots off, prompting the pair to do the same. Trott's eyes flicking to the staircase beside the door at the hallway's end is not lost on him. He feels his blood heat a little, tamps down on it quickly.

"Kitchen?" He gestures, motion jolting, to the door furthest, and Ross proceeds, firing a reassuring smile, then squeezing past the two men as he leads the way into the kitchen, a surprisingly spacious area, to allow Trott some comfort at not being forced to be uncomfortably close as they would be in the living room. Just in case.

The kitchen, surprisingly, is all white walls and characterless minimalism, but Ross much prefers that to what it could have been; stained worktops, peeling linoleum flooring, and corroded taps. Smith watches as the man heads to the kettle, switches it on in a well-versed flick of his hand, and inquires as to the brunet's drinking preference. He just glances at the clock on the wall he's stood with his back against, lips twitching at what must be some amusing fragment from his past, and then turns to face the darkest haired man directly.

"Just tea, please." His low voice is rich with slight humour. Smith considers his choices, alcohol from the bar still muddying his brain, now they're back in warmth. Another drink probably wouldn't be the wisest choice right now. Anyway, he wants to remember any events that occur...

He jolts back to the present. "Yeah. For me too. Tea." Ross nods, then reaches into the cupboard for mugs from the highest shelf. The good ones. As he reaches, the tee lifts, a sliver of pale skin revealed. Smith clenches his fingers together. Trott clears his throat, faux-idly. He feels rather than sees the smugness that would be plastered over Ross's face. He knew those mugs didn't need to be used - Trott's as good as one of them, for christ's sake - but they were on the highest shelf, and as such, allowed him to tease them.

Bastard. He doesn't want to admit the fondness that he thinks that with.

Ross pours the boiling water into the mugs after the crackling roar of the kettle lulls, and Smith reaches for the milk in the fridge, and passes it to the other man. Before long, they're stood with piping hot mugfuls of the tan liquid, and arranged in such a way they can see each other; Ross leant in his usual spot against the sink, Smith on his left a couple of feet away, and Trott to the tallest man's left.

The conversation flows, effortless, their tastes and humours somehow perfectly matched and seamlessly blending, and all of a sudden, Smith is hit with acute disbelief, wondering how this has only happened now. 

It feels so natural.

\---

Ross finishes the remainder of his tea in a quick sip, placing the empty thing down behind him with little care at its hollow clink, then observes the other two men as they continue recalling event after event, and laughing hard enough for their chests to heave. They'd finished their tea before him in quick draughts between punchlines. Ross just watches, enjoying the meshing of wit before him, the rowdy laughter, the exaggerated impressions and flailing hands.

He braces his hands on the counter behind him, and waits. Something has to crack, for Ross to believe that it will happen, and he can't force it.

He watches and waits, his whole self softened with a fondness he can't quite compute.

\---

Smith suddenly realises how long they've been talking when he runs out of things to say.

The silence in the room resounds, their breathing strangely loud after the shared laughter. It grows heavier as the pause stretches, is drawn out, and his hands flutter restlessly before dropping to his thighs and fidgeting. He keeps shifting his stance as he looks between the two other men. Ross is enigmatic as always, stood before the sink with his weight resting on his hands, which in turn rest on the counter, lower lip caught between his teeth.

Trott, on the other hand, has his arms crossed tightly, causing the tendons to stand more evident in his hands and forearms. His brown eyes flicker back and to, as though trying to work out the best course of action.

Smith waits a little longer, his nerves shredding and stomach clenching uncomfortably. Maybe. Maybe he has made a mistake, was desperate to be friendly to the brunet, put so much effort in and fixated so much that now he's got some sort of weird variation on Stockholm Syndrome and he's misplaced the now not-so latent feelings he's always had for his best friend and he's ruined it all and-

"Christ, I can hear your brain from here." There's a small huff of laughter from Ross as he snaps his attention to where the deep tones originated from, brows furrowing and mouth slightly parted as his panicking brain tries to churn out some suitable response. None comes. He just watches in confusion as the brunet mutters something about having to do everything himself, shoots the darkest haired man an apologetic look, and strides towards Smith.

He's preparing to flinch back, anticipating that Trott knows what he's feeling, that he's got it all wrong and will be on the receiving end of those fists himself. But that's far from what happens.

The brunet moves close into his space, heat radiating from him, or so it seems to Smith's suddenly overstimulated senses. Graceful hands sweep up his chest to cup his face, and deep whiskey eyes with pupils blown wide draw him in, intoxicating. He speaks, voice roughened, and Smith shivers. "Is this alright?" It takes him very little time to process the question, nodding haltingly, majority of his brain focused intensely on every point of contact as the shorter man steps flush against him, palms gentle as they pull his head down, brushing their lips together chastely, reassuringly.

Trott lets him pull back, hand lingering, eyes flitting across his face as he checks for any sign of unhappiness, uncomfortableness, or distaste. Smith know's the only expression to befouled there is shocked amazement - indeed he feels a breathless excitement as strongly as the heated buzz that is filling his veins, speeding his heart, and making each breath more ragged.

The brunet registers the consent, leans in again as he draws the other man forward, kiss hungrier. Smith feels one hand slide down his chest, making his muscles jump slightly before the arm settles around his waste, the other moving to the nape of his neck and twining in some of the hair there to tug slightly, pleasantly insistent. The smaller man pulls him even closer with the arm wound around him, pressing bodily against him, as Smith grabs the shorter man by his hips to tug him closer, his eyes fluttering closed. Smith widens his stance unconsciously, his brain swimming as they crush together, thoughts fleeting flashes of desire and very little reasoning, sparking arousal all-encompassing when he feels the flick of Trott's tongue.

Then the warmth is gone, and Smith can't help the little whimper that leaves his kiss-parted lips. He can barely think straight. The brunet is smiling ruefully at the other man, his eyes barely brown now, almost wholly black, just as Ross's are, only the slightest hint of icy iris remaining, and cheeks flushed. The darkest haired man stands with his legs conspicuously crossed, awe on his face. He whispers a few choice expletives under his breath, glancing quickly between the two.

Trott looks to Ross, then Smith. "Upstairs?"

It's a clumsy dash, each trying to keep as much contact with the other as possible. They end up in Ross's room, as it's the closest door, but they don't bother turning the light on, faint silvering moonlight and soft sodium glow from the distant main road enough to see with.

Ross pulls his tee off first, then flings it to the floor, movements desperate. Gone is his usual care. Both men step forward, Trott caressing the moonlit skin, following edges and planes as his other hand works desperately with the man's jeans, lust clouding common sense and patience. Smith watches with interest, as the brunet changes his mind, just starts to palm the man through the coarse material and smirking at the effect this has on him. "Fuck, Trott." His voice is breathy and strained, just making the shortest man smile all the wider. Smith takes this all in with his jaw hanging open, trying to peel his top off with the same effortless confidence of the darkest haired man, and failing quite miserably. He's interrupted by the sound of a body hitting the bed, mattress squeaking, unimpressed, and giggling. He hears swift padding steps approaching him to help.

"Come 'ere, sunshine." The voice surprises him, having expected Ross to have pushed Trott onto the bed. Appearances could be deceptive. Then again, Smith should've realised this by now. Long fingered hands bat his from the mess of his clothes, and extricate him quickly, lifting the tee from where it was wrapped immovably around his skull, revealing the wondrous sight of Trott with mussed hair and Ross propped on an elbow on his bed, shirtless and with lips kissed pink.

Grasping hands encourage him to the bed, prompt him to lie flat next to the darkest haired man. He leans across, smearing a hand across Ross's stomach to wrap around his waist and draw them closer, then leans over to kiss him. It's a tantalising brush the first time, the slight contact pairing with the just-cooler-than-skin air in the room to make them both shudder. Smith feels the dipping of the mattress where Trott moves to, kneeling over Ross, but is too caught up in the kiss, deeper now, headier now, eyelids fluttered closed and breaths fleeting between each heavy kiss. They tangle their tongues, and Smith grinds his hips against the other man's thigh, groaning at the intense pleasure. He really needs to get his jeans off, and soon.

Ross shifts away from him, letting loose a soft moan, and Smith looks for the cause. It's Trott, fiddling with the man's fly and pulling the trousers down, aided by wiggling of the man's hips as he squirms with pleasure at the way the brunet's hand brushes his crotch, by no means accidentally. "Goddamn you." A gasp. "Trott, you tease!" Another ragged pant, and the only reply from Trott is a brilliant smile, teeth flashing almost dangerously in the low light.

Smith frowns, higher thinking distant, but still there, if he struggles, and he vaguely notes how Trott is already jean-less but still has his tee on, and why is that?

Then those same hands are on him, helping him out of the hellish restriction granted by the jeans, and he vindictively kicks them off when he's able, breaths heaving as Trott runs his nails up and down his front lazily as he continues to straddle Ross, lips curled. He leans down to kiss Ross, deep and intense, and Smith watches their hands paw at each other and their hips move unconsciously. The dark haired man makes a noise of discontent as Trott sits back up again, and tries to lean up, stomach muscles flexing wonderfully - for a second he's transfixed - but he's pushed back down, flat to the bed, by the brunet. 

Smith's about to lean in, kiss the defined deltoid of Ross's upper arm, but Trott stops that with a gentle hand too. He makes sure they're both watching intently, then pulls his tee off. 

The pale expanses of skin are made porcelain by the silvered light, and really, Smith shouldn't be surprised at the shortest man's build - seriously, he knows karate - but he really didn't expect the wiry strength evident in his lean lines. He carelessly flings the top to the floor at the foot of the bed, twisting ever so slightly, and a both he and Ross observe the workings of his musculature with unconfined interest.

When he notices this, it prompts a small, cheeky smile. "Like what you see?" It's said with no little amusement, but also warmth, relief. Smith reaches a hand forward to trace the swells and troughs of his arm with a curious touch, while Ross runs his hand over the brunet's stomach, smiling a little pleased smile when the tissue twitches under his palm, and Trott's eyes flutter closed, eyelids fanning over his cheeks in dusky crescents, while his breathing hitches.

Smith can't stand it anymore. He moves to kneel behind Trott as he himself looms over Ross, and plasters himself in a matching curve behind the brunet, pulling the man tight against him with both arms until he can press his hips insistently to the small of his back, gasping raggedly as his vision is momentarily replaced with sparks, and pleasure sweeps through every inch of him, while desperate heat spreads from his arousal with every heartbeat.

He tilts his head to kiss lightly at the long column of Trott's neck, feeling the tendons shift under pale skin as he leans his head back onto to the taller man's shoulder. Smith's kisses grow sloppier as he moves to the juncture between neck and shoulder, then grazes the sensitive areas with his teeth, prompting a low moan in the shorter man's chest that he feels rumble against him.

Ross is gasping as he observes, no doubt the result of Trott's ministrations, and the sight before him.

He feels a hand slip carelessly to his hip, before sliding between where their bodies are sandwiched stickily with sweat. It skims down, tracing swirling patterns just above the waistband of his boxers, then dips below, touch light, and Smith freezes while he tries to get some air in his lungs, chest desperately shifting to suck air in as his brain is almost blanked out by the intense ecstasy of every second of contact. 

He manages to sum up the willpower to peel his eyes open, looking over the brunet to see Ross writhing with pleasure, moaning loudly as the brunet above him traces the outline of him in his boxers. It's almost too much. Jesus Christ is it hot. Fuck.

He feels the pressure on him increase, and he pulls the smaller man as tight against him as possible, bowing himself around the shorter man and letting loose a shuddering groan as waves of heat emanate and surge through him as his blood sings.

He feels loss as the hand wrapped around him disappears, but a hand presses against his heaving side to guide him gently back to lie flat beside Ross. He returns to the position he was in previously, propped on an elbow, right hand free to run across the man's chest, as he kisses at the man's neck and prompts breathy sounds from deep in his throat. He plasters his front to the side of the man, grinds his hips desperately as cotton grazes him and makes him shiver. 

He feels rather than sees Trott move to ground his hips down repeatedly on Ross's, the man pinned down bucking to reach some kind of relief as he moans. Smith can feel the speeded pulse as his hand rests over the man's heart, and he continues seeking the delicious pressure, getting closer and closer, desperation driving him relentlessly. 

"Shit! Guys..." Ross is struggling to speak, muttered syllables making little sense. "Fuck, m' close." He inhales once more, heavily, then moans against Smith's lips where he slants them together in a bruising kiss, his hips moving jaggedly as dampness spreads across the front of his boxers. The sight sparks something in Smith, his own rhythm become jerking and broken, and with a few last presses, he feels the intense pleasure overwhelm him in bursts of white, blinded as his vision flickers, and he loosens his breath in a long groan.

All they can hear in the ethereally lit room are panting breaths. Smith can't believe what they just did, content and sated, stupid grin across his face. He looks across to Ross, both equally sprawled, and then a thought strikes him - what about Trott?

He lifts his heavy head while all his muscles are jelly, and notes the man still kneeling over Ross, his chest leaping and muscles shifting, waiting for the two men to relive him as he observes them with eyes blown bottomless by need. He glances at Ross, nudges the man, and points at Trott. They struggle upright, limbs loose and uncooperative, and gently guide the brunet to lie in the space warmed by their bodies. 

They set about worshipping him, the realisation of what reality he has brought them at the front of their minds, both shaken equally by the prospect of the future they now can have, and what they might never have had, depending on what decisions any one of them might have made.

They grin as their light touches make him shudder, tracing every line of his pale skinned body. They kiss across his neck and his chest, his stomach, his thighs, enjoying the occasional thrumming sigh they prompt from between his Cupid bow lips, kiss-bitten pink.

Smith presses his palm to the man's length, feels the heat through the thin material of the boxers, while a low groan escapes him. He feels a little flutter of pleasure at this, but it's too soon for anything to happen. He leans his hand down more heavily, heel of his hand pressing hardest, making the man's hips buck to meet it. Ross is busy kissing at the man's neck and humming with slight amusement at the actions this causes.

One of Trott's hands curls around Smith's wrist, wiry strength undeniable in this instant as he pulls the taller man's hand as close and as heavy as possible, moves against it. Smith watches as a pale hand tangles in the short dark hair at the nape of Ross's neck, pulling him even closer to his neck as he sucks bruises into the moon-marbled skin.

There's a desperate sound from low in the brunet's throat, hips thrusting at his hand irregularly now, and then Smith's wrist is let go, a deep but quiet whimper the only sound from Trott. His eyes are screwed shut with the pleasure, eyes flickering beneath the lids, and his chest is moving as it sucks in gasping breaths. 

Both taller men pull of their boxers, the cooling dampness uncomfortable now, and help Trott out of his. They pull back the covers, cocooning themselves as they tangle their limbs together, boneless and tired, Trott between the pair.

The brunet leans to place chaste kisses agains both men's mouths, smile sweet and strangely innocent, in light of what they just did. 

"Thanks." Neither Smith nor Ross asks what for - they both know full well. 

They press closer in their sprawls, and swiftly fall into sleep, limbs soft and minds quiet.

\---------

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it.

Siera. X


End file.
